Ire and Instrument
by russantroll
Summary: Cyberpunk AU, with elements of steampunk. Fëanor, heir to the prestigious Finwë Cybertechnics Corporation, creates seven cyborg sons and invites his brothers and extended family to his home in a city burgeoning with dangerous new technology. For Fingon and Maedhros, so begins the discovery of what it means to live - and what it means to die.
1. Chapter 1

Aredhel's corset was too tight, she said. And when Fingon looked at his sister, he had to admit that she might have a point. How she was able to breathe in that thing was anyone's guess.

They were sitting, along with Turgon, Argon and their father, in the new locomotive. The new locomotive had wide windows framed by velvet curtains. The seats, too, were velvet-upholstered; deep blue. Fingolfin was thrilled with the new locomotive, which had so many cogs and pulleys that it was enough to make anybody's head spin, but Fingon privately missed the old one, with its moth-eaten seats and the sickly yellow strip-lighting set into its arced roof.

"I don't understand why we all had to come," went on Aredhel, "I doubt our uncle has any interest in seeing us. He hardly knows us."

It had been a long time since they had last seen Fingolfin's elder brother, Fëanor. The last time, he and his wife, Nerdanel, had visited them in their country house. Fingon had been young enough that he did not really remember it, now, but he knew it had not ended well. It seemed strange to him that Fëanor would make contact again now, after so long. What did he want? (Fingon tried not to second-guess him, but surely he must want _something_).

"He invited all of us," said Fingolfin, firmly, "So all of us shall go."

At any rate, it was too late now for any of them to opt to stay behind. They had almost reached the city.

_The city. _Fingon was not sure how he felt about the city. It was a strange, monochrome world after the greens and browns of the countryside. Grey spires pierced a white sky. Everyone dressed darkly so that the smog would not stain their clothes. An enormous clock-tower dominated the skyline, its luteous gold face providing a lone bolt of colour. There was something unsettling about the clock. His first impression was that it was watching him, but he dismissed the idea as madness.

Still, you could not deny that the city was majestic. There were locomotives everywhere, gleaming dully like armoured creatures from another world, raised up high on enormous, many-spoked wheels. The buildings burst with light. Here, steam-power was bowing out slowly but surely to something new: cybertechnology was on the rise. You could not be here, in this city, and be able to deny it.

Fingon glanced at Turgon, the brother who was closest to him in age, who was seated to his left. Turgon was looking out of the window. His mouth was an inscrutable line, but Fingon could see the awe in his eyes.

"What do you think?" Fingon asked him.

And Turgon, with a little shake of his head as though to rouse himself, replied; "I'm reserving judgement," but Fingon knew he was enchanted.

Eventually, the locomotive drew to a smooth stop – much smoother than the old one – and they heard Fingolfin's driver jump nimbly down onto the cobbles. The driver – a small, wiry man clad head-to-foot in black – first opened the door at Argon, Aredhel and Fingolfin's side, then hurried round to open the other door. They all piled out into the damp morning.

"Different sort of cold, here," Argon observed, "It clings, doesn't it?"

"It's all the moisture in the air," rejoined Turgon, "From people living at such close quarters, you see."

Fingon snorted. "These quarters don't look _close_ to me," he said, looking at the street of grey-brick manor houses, each separated from the next by a wrought-iron fence. The largest, settled in a cul-de-sac, even had a bell-tower.

His father, having thanked the driver and come to join his children, laughed his quiet laugh. "Quite right," he agreed, "My brother has done well for himself, hasn't he? Shall we go in?"

And he set off towards the house with the bell-tower.

A woman opened the door. She was a servant in a prim, dark dress, with prim, dark hair pinned neatly back from her face. Her face did not register surprise or recognition or any other emotion, though Fingolfin seemed to know her.

"Hello, Alwen," he said crisply, "Fëanor is expecting us."

"Oh, I know," replied, Alwen. Then she blushed, catching herself, and dipped a hasty little curtsy. "I mean, er, of course – please come in, my Lord. You must all be very tired from such a long journey. I'll let Lord Fëanor know you're here."

She moved aside to admit them, and Fingon followed his father inside.

He was not sure what he had been expecting. Somewhere cool and dim, almost cave-like, perhaps. In fact, the anteroom was nothing short of magnificent. The floor was marble, and the ceiling was lit with a thousand tiny white lights, like stars. The effect was of an otherworldly place, sparse and airy. Fingon could not imagine anyone _living _here.

"You can wait in the drawing room, if you will," said the maid, Alwen, over her shoulder, as she led them up a winding staircase, "They'll be along soon, Lord Fëanor and the others."

"Others?" Fingolfin lifted his dark eyebrows quizzically, and the servant girl let out a nervous little laugh.

"Oh – you don't know, yet, do you?" she murmured, "Silly of me – I didn't realise. Well, I won't ruin the...surprise."

Something in her voice; in the way she said the word _'surprise'_ particularly, gave Fingon a vague but definite sense of foreboding.

The drawing room was a testament to an earlier time. Gas lamps burnt; their low naphtha hiss filled the air in the same constant way as a clock's ticking might. A mechanical lion, bronze and enormous, presided court over the empty armchairs dotted about. The furniture was rich, heavy oak, gleaming in the orange glow cast by the lamps. The curtains were drawn shut; they were thick, heavy velvet and did not let in any light. ("Lord Fëanor likes the _atmosphere_ the lamplight makes," Alwen had said before she left them there, and Fingolfin had shaken his head knowingly).

Now they were waiting, in silence. Aredhel sat tense and straight-backed. Argon tapped his foot lightly on the carpeted floor. Turgon and their father both wore the same unreadable expression.

Then, there came the sound of footsteps. A moment later, Alwen stepped briskly inside.

"His Lordship Fëanor of House Finwë," she announced, "His wife, the Lady Nerdanel, and their sons: Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod and Amras."

"Sons - ?" Fingolfin spluttered, almost forgetting to stand on ceremony, his eyes widening in an expression that would have been almost comical, as Alwen backed out of the room. "What in the world - ?"

"_Seven_ sons, if my count is correct," Turgon added in a bewildered undertone.

As far as any of them knew, Fëanor and Nerdanel did not have any children.

Then the door opened again – and in they all came.

Fëanor was first; impressive and dark, somehow broad and wiry at once. Beside him came his wife, red-haired Nerdanel, whose face was freckled and kind with clear blue-green eyes. And then; then came their alleged children; grown men, all of them. (How could such a thing be possible?)

The seven sons filed in, soldier-silent. Three were dark-haired, one was fair, and three had the same russet hair as Nerdanel. All were pale-skinned; lithe, with a certain etiolated beauty in their angular faces. They looked, Fingon thought, as though they had never seen the sun (which, living in this city of fog and smoke, would not in fact have been unlikely). They all moved quietly, sinuously, like cats.

"Nolofinwë," boomed Fëanor – for there really was no other word for it than _boomed,_ decided Fingon - "How your children have grown! Your eldest was knee-high, the last time I saw you. Is life treating you well?"

Fingolfin's eyes were travelling over his putative nephews; he blinked once or twice as though in befuddlement and kneaded his brow.

"Sons – Fëanor," he muttered finally, "Ilúvatar... What - ? How have - ? _Sons?"_

Fëanor laughed heartily; Nerdanel arrowed a sharp, sideways glance at him.

"Yes, _sons_, brother," he nodded, "What do you think of them?"

It was such an odd question that for a moment Fingolfin seemed rendered speechless. "What do I – think of them?"

"Yes, yes, what do you _think?_" Fëanor sighed impatiently. "Have you ever seen such a perfect merging of nature with cybertechnology? These are my sons. Mine and my dearest Nerdanel's. I _made_ them. Isn't it remarkable?"

He practically beamed with pride. Fingon let his eyes stray back to the seven sons. Most of them kept their faces carefully blank, but he was almost certain the tallest of them wore a slightly pained expression at Fëanor's words.

"You made..." comprehension dawned in Fingolfin's dark blue eyes, "Oh, _Ilúvatar – _cyborgs, Fëanor?"

Yes, Fingon decided, meeting the eyes of the tallest son, that was definitely a wince.

"Don't say that," Nerdanel spoke for the first time, "I know this is quite – unexpected for you, but have a care."

Fingolfin closed his eyes and then opened them again. He sighed deeply. "I'm sorry," he responded finally, "You're right, of course; that was insensitive of me. But...might I ask _why_, Fëanor?"

Fëanor lifted his massive shoulders in an unconcerned shrug. "They are going to retrieve the silmarils for me," he announced. The look that blazed in his eyes was almost like a physical force. "And I know they _will _do it. Their programming is perfect."

When Fingon emerged from his room, the tall son was waiting for him.

He was leaning against the wall, reading a book. It would have been easy, watching him avidly devour the words, to forget what he was. Even in the gloomy daylight, his hair looked molten.

"Sorry about the welcome you received," he snapped his books shut and looked at Fingon. "Sometimes my father has so little regard for other people. All he is interested in is showing off his creations."

Fingon felt his face warm. "You are not _creations,_ as you put it," he replied with a tightness that reminded him of his own father when something stirred his ire.

The other man's lips twitched. "Technically, we're _all_ creations; you included," he gave a soft laugh, "But my brothers and I are instruments. Perhaps that isn't a pleasant thing to realise, but it's true. I have always known it."

"Always? How long is 'always'?"

"Oh, a matter of weeks, but it feels like so much longer. Years of false memories packed into the _programming, _you see. Did you know, we've met before?" His voice was dry, almost amused, but his expression was intent.

Fingon raised a brow. "Have we?"

"Yes, a long time ago, when we were both children. I remember it well."

"Well, I don't, of course. Perhaps you could tell me the story someday."

There was a long pause, in which Fingon's cousin looked at him.

"I will one day," he agreed, "But we ought to go and find the others, now."

Fingon nodded distractedly, but stayed where he was. The other pushed off from the wall, standing straight (he really did have very long legs; he was even taller than Turgon). He began to walk away.

"Wait," Fingon fell into step beside him, "Which one are you?"

Another of those small, close-mouthed smiles. As thought it was a secret he was about to share.

"Maedhros," he said.


	2. Chapter 2

Dinner was a strained affair, to say the very least.

"We shall be an even larger party soon," Fëanor informed them as they sat down to eat in a colossal dining hall built to seat at least three times their number, "What with Finfarin and his family joining us."

Fingon was admiring the dully gleaming pewter figures dancing a ceaseless clockwork dance across the beams of the ceiling, but he snapped to attention at that. What, he wondered, would his other uncle; his father's younger brother, think of what Fëanor had done? What would his cousins think?

He felt for Fëanor's seven new-made sons, being the focus of so much attention. It could not, he thought, be overly pleasant.

"Finfarin is coming?" inquired his father, presently.

"He should be here tomorrow," the lady Nerdanel put in, nodding, "He and his children. They were supposed to arrive today, but he sent a telegram to say they would be a little late."

"Do we leave, once they get here?" one of the seven sons, a dark-haired and dark-eyed youth by the name of Caranthir, cut in. "It's about time, isn't it?"

"Leave?" Fingolfin frowned. "More surprises, brother?"

Fëanor cast a sharp, quelling glance at Caranthir. "We had meant to discuss it once Finfarin is here, too," he explained easily, "I have asked you all here to entreat your help."

Lady Nerdanel took a small sip of wine, her gaze flickering, discomfited, from her husband to Fingolfin and back again.

"Our help with what?" asked Fingon despite himself. His voice was even; there was no impatience in it, no anger, but Fëanor looked at him as though he had committed a personal affront.

"We should discuss it when Arafinwë and his family are here," said Fëanor with finality, "It concerns them too, after all."

Fingon thought to himself that if his uncle wanted their help, the least he could do would be to tell them what, exactly, he wished them to do, but he said nothing. On his right, his brother Turgon gripped his knife and fork tightly; tense.

_Everyone,_ in fact, was tense. They could not talk freely the way one ordinarily might at a family reunion. They sat, for the most part, in weighty silence. Only the copper-haired twins, Amrod and Amras, repeatedly attempted to strike up conversation, with one another and with those around them. Aredhel, who sat opposite Amras, joined in gladly where she could. She was easy with them, as though she had known them for much longer than a single afternoon, and as though she had quite forgotten what they _were._

Fingon wanted to forget, too.

After dinner, the men retired to the smoking room (more naphtha lamps and overstuffed armchairs, no doubt). Nerdanel slipped away; no one saw where she went. Rather than leave his sister alone, Fingon decided to accompany Aredhel in exploring the house.

He walked beside her. The bustle of her white silk skirt rustled as she moved. For a moment she looked, with her pale, pensive face, just like their mother, Anairë, who had remained behind at home. There was no love lost between Anairë and Fëanor; she openly disapproved of his cut-throat attitude to business.

Then: "Those poor men," she murmured, and a little louder: "Our poor cousins. To be _used _so. And to have no choice in the matter! Oh, it's true, they seem happy enough to do what's expected of them. They seem perfectly willing. But do you think they really know any different, Fingon, given what they – what they are?"

Fingon considered this. "I'm certain they do," he rejoined, repressing a sigh, "Just because they're new-made, that doesn't make them children. You know cyborgs are supposed to be born knowing."

"I wish you wouldn't call them that!" Aredhel drew herself up. "It isn't right."

"It's what they are," said Fingon plainly, "I don't mean anything bad by it."

His sister sniffed. "You know that now Fëanor has his sons, he'll leave everything to them," she pointed out with grim relish, "The company was supposed to be left to us. Well, to you, anyway." She shrugged a little as though to say, '_you know how I feel about that sort of thing – it's an awful bore'._ "Now it will be handed down to them and who knows what they will do with it."

Mulling over her words, Fingon felt a weight settle around him. By rights, the Finwë corporation was to be his one day. But he could see no way that Fëanor would relinquish the reins of his cybertechnic endeavours, especially now that he had sons who could carry the torch. The thought troubled him, and stirred in him something almost akin to anger. He pushed it down, hurriedly. Did he feel this way because the corporation was his birthright, whereas the fact was that these seven sons of Fëanor had not really been _born _at all? It seemed a callous, selfish thing to think, and he did not want it to be true, but he could not be sure.

"You seemed to get along very well with the twins," he pointed out, changing the subject hastily. They came to a staircase that moved ceaselessly upward, one silver step merging fluidly into the next (how Fingolfin would love to study the mechanisms of that, Fingon thought). Aredhel stepped onto it, lifting her skirts, and Fingon followed. They remained stationary, allowing the metal-wrought staircase to carry them upwards.

"They like to visit the countryside, you know," Aredhel smiled over her shoulder, "Fëanor implanted it in their memories – the ones they were born with. They've been to the country a thousand times; even if they haven't _really_. They like to hunt." Her dark eyes danced. She was happy, Fingon realised, to have found kindred spirits; men who were not her elder brothers, concerned mainly with protecting her from the world. Men who perhaps would have shared her free spirit, but, bound to their father's will, would never quite be able to do so.

"Perhaps they'll visit us at home one day, then," he found himself saying, though it seemed to him unlikely.

They reached the top of the staircase and stepped onto a wide landing. Lights, similar to the ones in the anteroom, whirled overhead. This whole place, it seemed to Fingon, whirred with yellow-gold lights. It made his head spin.

"Tomorrow," Aredhel said half to herself, "Arafinwë will be here. We haven't seen him in such a long time..." she came to an abrupt halt and was very still for a moment, then turned slowly to face Fingon.

"What do you think will happen?" she asked him. Her face was unusually solemn, but something like excitement burned in the pinprick-glints that the lights reflected in her eyes. "_Something _is going to, isn't it?"

"I don't know," Fingon smiled at her. "But whatever it is, I have a feeling we will get to see more of the city – and other places besides. It will almost be worth all the trouble that's coming, won't it? To see so much of the world?"

His stomach flipped. The greater part of him vehemently believed this. But the greater part of him was not, even so, quite enough to quash the dread that simmered on a low burn at the back of his mind.

"_Maitimo,_"

Maedhros paused outside the door to his rooms, and turned. Maglor stopped a few steps short of him, his face eerily uplit by the lantern he was carrying. The golden quality of the light, and the low, slow whir of cogs, told that it was one of their father's _Undying Lights_, a creation Fëanor was particularly proud of.

"What is it?" asked Maedhros, quietly. He was weary. Today was one of those days when the false memories crowded so tightly in his mind and he knew he had so much – _too much – _to catch up on. It threatened to overwhelm him.

"It won't be easy, you know," Maglor lowered the lantern. He, too, sounded bone-tired. (_But metal latticed their bones like lead diamonds in the windowpanes)._ "Going after Morgoth; retrieving the Silmarils. There is a good chance every one of us will die, trying."

Maedhros shook his head slightly. "Why are you saying this? You know you cannot refuse. It isn't possible."

The light flickered artfully, for effect, as _Undying Lights _sometimes will. Maglor smiled thinly.

"I don't intend to," he responded, "You know I would follow Ada to the ends of this world. We all would. I only... I wanted you to know..."

"Know what?" asked Maedhros, not exactly impatiently. He leant back against the closed door, feeling the cool iron behind him.

"The twins have illusions of glory and honour," Maglor said, "Even the others, I think, don't fully realise... I wanted to make sure..."

Maedhros smiled his close-mouthed smile. "That I knew what I was getting myself into?" he asked, and let out the breath he had been holding. "What would you have done if I'd told you I had visions of daring quests and boundless power and glory? Would you have shattered my dreams? Condemned me to a life of torturous fear?" Maglor's expression was wavering, uncertain, and Maedhros said with a dry lightness: "I'm jesting, Macalaurë. Thank you. I appreciate the warning."

Maglor smiled too, but his eyes remained troubled.

"What do we want?" his voice was whisper-soft. "For ourselves? After all of this is through? We don't exist solely for this, surely..."

There was a long silence. Maedhros thought of the memories his father had planted in his mind; the memories that formed him. These memories kindled in him a sense of kinship, what could only be described as a _family _sort of feeling. But even that – even that fed into the need that impelled him. He existed _for _Fëanor and because of him. Fëanor needed them; relied on them; even worshipped them in his own way. He placed his trust in them. Perhaps it was only another part of the programming, but Maedhros thought of Fëanor and saw not a maker, but a father.

"I cannot think of the future," he said simply, "This is what we have now. This is why we're here. Lets not waste time yearning for _more. _A man could go mad that way."

He turned and twisted the door-handle, and with the dull click as it opened, he realised the flaw in what he had said.

He was not by any means a man. None of them were.


	3. Chapter 3

On the third morning of their stay at the grand and grave manor house – which they called, simply, Formenos – Fingon discovered the library.

It was a foul day. They had been intending to look around the city, but the rain, which fell in ceaseless sheets, prevented them. Fingon wandered, restless. He went in and out of empty rooms, never staying in one place for too long. The house gave him a curious, not altogether pleasant feeling; its myriad glinting lights seemed a jarring presence when coupled with the grim, portentous décor (tapestries rich in dark hues; heavy, polished oak furnishings). The impression this place had given him upon entering, that it could never be a home, lingered, making him feel – bizarrely and unjustifiably – as though he were trespassing on something sacred.

He climbed the moving staircase, passing between an impressive pair of steel-wrought pillars that heralded his arrival on the second floor. Along the corridor he went, stopping at a door whose thick, dark wood was inlaid with dully gleaming, coppery leaves.

It seemed as good a place to start as any. Fingon pushed open the door.

It swung quietly inwards on well-oiled hinges and he stepped inside, shutting it carefully behind him (for this room was filled with a different, deeper silence).

Fingon stared. Shelves, spaced at even intervals, arrowed inwards toward the centre of the room like spokes on a wheel. The whole thing, an enormous disc, revolved slowly; dizzyingly. How could anyone concentrate on finding something to read, when the room was constantly spinning? He shook his head, blinking a few times. The lights in here, rather than a hundred pinprick-stars, were large orbs, which also spun slowly. The effect was more than a little overwhelming.

He stepped onto the turning dais. Moving between the shelves, he found he could almost forget about the spinning. It was so slow as to be barely discernible. Towards the centre of the room, the shelves drew closer together, culminating in what he had thought from afar was a curved wall but was in fact a thick, damson-coloured velvet curtain not unlike those in the drawing room.

He pushed aside the curtain.

What he saw was an island of stillness in the middle of all this disconcerting motion. What he saw was a circular space, softly lit, outfitted with four golden pine desks, each with a tasselled lamp set upon it, and four matching high-backed chairs. There were, too, three comfortable looking armchairs, forming a sort of loose triangle at the edges of the circle. The little room-within-a-room currently held only one inhabitant, who sat at one of the desks, head bent industriously over a book. It was Maedhros. Of _course _it was. Fingon paused for a moment, hesitant over whether to disturb him, but Maedhros looked up, pushing renegade strands of hair away from his face (it was almost wine-coloured in this light, his hair).

"Oh," he said with detached surprise, and blinked once, as though to dispel the illusion of whatever he had been reading. "Fingon." He gestured vaguely at one of the armchairs. "Sit down."

Fingon did, recognising in Maedhros a sense of casual command reminiscent of Fëanor himself.

"What's that you're reading?" he inquired, leaning an elbow on the arm of his chair.

"A history book," rejoined Maedhros, "'_Of the Ainur',_" he read, "'_A Brief History of Creation and its Aftermath'._"

Fingon eyed the hefty tome. "Brief," he snorted, "Certainly. Do you mean to read _all _of that? You know, it's quite possible – and infinitely more practical – to glean everything you need from that by reading simply the introduction and conclusion chapters. There aren't enough hours in the day to waste on going through the whole thing with a fine-tooth comb."

At that, Maedhros shook his head, and Fingon caught a flicker of amusement in his expression. "Yes, I mean to read it all," he replied, "It's interesting to me; and in any case, it's important to know things. Things other than those I was made knowing."

This, Fingon thought he could understand. Was this his cousin's way of creating for himself a separate space from that occupied by Fëanor? A piece of his life that did not belong entirely to his father? How would it be, to define oneself by a single purpose? Perhaps this pursuit of knowledge, in its way, made him feel whole and real.

"The Ainur were made," Maedhros said, "Sprung into being, just like my brothers and I. Ilúvatar created them, of course. It's said that Morgoth himself is one of them, and that he fell from grace by defying Ilúvatar and creating discord among the Ainur."

"I know," Fingon smiled slightly. "I'd believe it of him, too. Deviant that he is."

Maedhros laughed mirthlessly. "Deviant is too mild a word for him," he murmured. "It's important for us to know our enemy; to know where he came from. But more than that, it's a cautionary tale, isn't it?"

Fingon felt, all of a sudden, unsettled. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well," Maedhros looked at him as though it ought to be obvious, "Morgoth sought to undermine his maker, and no good came of him. It tells us that everyone has their place, and to upset that balance would bring nothing good. Morgoth ought to have been bound to Ilúvatar the way my brothers and I are bound to Ada, but he severed that bond and look what became of him. There is nothing more important than who and where you have come from."

They looked at each other. Maedhros' expression was set and there was ardency in his eyes. Something in Fingon's chest stretched taut and then snapped back painfully. How completely and wholly these seven new-made sons were at the mercy of their father's will. But more wrenching even than that was how they _wanted _it. There was no question of where their allegiance lay; no question of whether they would do whatever their Ada asked of them. It simply _was._ A fact as chill and grey as morning. Fingon wanted to grasp Maedhros' shoulders and shake him, for all the good it would do.

But: "Perhaps you're right," was all he said. Was it, he wondered, because he knew it was a battle he could never win? Or was it that, little as he knew of him, he somehow could not bear to disillusion Maedhros even now. The truth of the latter possibility rankled. How little he understood himself! It was almost as though he, Fingon, was himself new-made.

That night, Finarfin and his children arrived.

They came as evening was settling blue-white over the city. The rain had slowed to a fine drizzle. From the drawing room window, Fingon watched them climb down from their locomotive. The sight of their five pale towheads gladdened his heart; he had known his uncle and cousins well from childhood, and though of late they had not seen much of one another, Fingon wrote to his cousins Angrod and Aegnor often, and they to him. From this vantage-point, and through the rain, he could not tell one from the other (except for his youngest cousin Galadriel who was all in white, as seemed to have become the fashion for ladies).

"They're here," he threw out over his shoulder to Turgon and Argon, who were with him. "Arafinwë is here."

Turgon stood up and went from the room, probably to find Aredhel or their father, and Argon came to join Fingon at the window.

"What will they make of – all this, do you think?" he asked, and Fingon shook his head.

"I've no idea," he replied, sotto voce, and breathed a sigh.

Together, they went downstairs.

The arrival of Finarfin and his family would have been a joy to witness. Argon and Fingon met them in the anteroom, relieving Alwen, the maid, of her duties so that she could hasten to round up the rest of the family. Their greetings were warm and open, full of exclamations upon what had changed, and what had not (Fingon was told by Angrod that he had not changed a bit; Aegnor opined that Argon had looked better with shorter hair). As they trooped up the stairs they were merry, or at least content in their own dignified ways, and Fingon felt the coming hours weigh heavily on him. There would be no time for merriment once Fëanor disclosed his plans to them all, he was sure.

They convened again in the drawing room, and this time, Fëanor, Nerdanel and their sons were already there waiting for them. Aredhel sat with Amrod and Amras. Celegorm and Curufin (Fëanor's sole fair-haired son, and the long-nosed, weak-chinned dark one) had been deep in conversation, and broke off when the small crowd entered. Maedhros sought Fingon's glance, and Fingon gave him the smallest of encouraging smiles. _(It will all be over soon)._

Then it began.

"Long journey, Arafinwë?" Fëanor went to his youngest brother and clapped him heartily on the back. "Where is Eärwen? Did she not feel like joining us?"

Finafrin shook his head, and Fingon saw Aegnor's expression tighten with a deep lowering of his brow. "It wasn't so bad," Finafrin said, "We were waylaid coming into the city – market day, you see, though I can't think why anyone would want to be out in this weather – but all in all it was fine."

"Good," said Fëanor hastily, charging onward, "Good. Well, I'm glad you're all here. It's with great pleasure, Arafinwë, that I must introduce you to my sons."

Finarfin's eyebrows lifted in a perfect parody of Fingolfin's expression upon hearing those same words.

"Sons?" he asked.

Fëanor nodded, undeterred. "Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, and the twins: Amrod and Amras. They are going to help us to retrieve my Silmarils and assist us in the matter of Morgoth."

"They...? Fëanor, you _have _no children."

Fëanor waved a hand expansively at his large family. "The evidence would suggest otherwise," he pointed out, as Finarfin looked around in bemusement.

"Fëanor..." Finarfin began, and then, thinking better of it, turned to address Maglor, who was closest. "He made you, didn't he? You are new-made?"

And Maglor, of course, nodded; Fingon registered the surprised widening of his dark eyes. Evidently, he had not been expecting Finarfin to address him – or any of them – directly.

"I see," said Finarfin, very quietly.

It was Galadriel who put forth the same question asked by Fingolfin a few days previously.

"Why?" she asked, "Why have you done this?" Fingon marvelled; Galadriel had a way of speaking that was all levelness and calm, but which contained a prickling undercurrent of intensity and directness that made even Fëanor pause before replying.

"Because," he rejoined after a moment, and his voice crackled with its own electricity, "We need them. To have a hope of overcoming Morgoth, we need them. He – _it; _that _thing –_ slaughtered our father and stole from me almost everything I own. And I do not _care _for the cost; we _will _make him pay for what he has done. If you do not stand with me in this, then surely you stand _against_ Ada. Against his _memory._"

Silence reigned in the drawing room.


End file.
